There have been a number of epic pieces composed to celebrate the accumulation of milestone numbers of posts in MOAB. In some, the MOAB has been metaphorically depicted as a ship in a gale; in orthers, as a crew of desperate rail navvies putting down track; in others, as a race of desperate mighty steeds heading for a finish line.

Each of these compositions has had all the artistic merit of a piece by Kipling, or by Chongo, by McGonagle, or by Walksaboutverse--the same desperate sensitivity, rattled tatterdemalion scansion and impeccable spasticity of rhythm. Despite these aesthetic credentials of the first water, they are constantly slighted, and let pass without comment by their readers.

Chongo didn't go to jail for that assault (mainly because he has a lot of buddies in the police force), but he now has a large contingent of Baboons related to the first one who are on a vendetta against him. Not that there's anything new about that...

Oh ye of little faith!! Anyone who is ANYONE uses direct perception, rather than biological sensors, to see their way through the storm of life. Direct perception is instantaneous, a result of permeating exiatence rather than hiding in it like a meathead staring at a PDP11.

You're quite right that there is a small time lag in our sensory perceptions of the world, Rapaire. But it's VERY small, agreed? I think it's so small that it hardly matters in any practical sense. For instance, there was this Baboon who figured he was so fast that he could kick Chongo a hard one in the ass and then get away before Chongo saw who did it.

It didn't work out. Immediately after administering the kick he received a broken leg, a busted nose, 2 black eyes, 5 broken ribs, a dislocated shoulder, and a bruised kidney. He is recuperating in hospital. The sensory lag just wasn't long enough.

Well, you would know it right away, but just not at the instant everything disappeared. It would still be present in the mind for that instant. And if it is virtually present, doesn't that count? Virtual life is certainly as real as we allow it to be. Think of Captain Kirk, or Chongo, or even that McBride guy.

To the contrary, we always live in the present. The past is a remembered dream, and the future is a phantasm. The only real thing we have and ever will have is the present. When you read this, it will be in the present. When you decide it's all a bunch of hooey it will still be in the present. You can deny the present all you want (and people do deny it much of the time), but it will never deny you.

Amos, we all live in the past. Roughly speaking your nerve impulses travel at 72 mph -- VIRTUALLY instantaneous in the size of the human body, but actually a pause from perception to brain realization. Thus, EVERYTHING you see, feel, taste, smell, touch, hear is actually in the past, just as the light from every star or satellite comes from the past. You're not built to do any OTHER than live in the past. Notice that I'm not saying anything about the "life of the mind" or a "spiritual life," just that at the biological level. Some, Shame McBride for example, rarely even reach that level....

Yes, yes...I bear a heavy cross, Amos. Each day I yearn to be as cool, suave, and debonair as you are, and to live a life like yours. It just kills me, and I have no idea what to do about it. So I make up wild stories instead. ;-D Homeland Security is longing to get their greasy paws on me. They thirst for my blood. I am number 612 on their list of 75,213,709 known subversives worthy of detention and waterboarding...

Well, that's not exactly what I said, but then Rapp's memory never was all that good. What I said was "If you're not, you probably should be..." meaning that he should be fined. Either the remark went entirely over his head, or he did not want to confront the long inventory of social offenses for which such a fine would be justified, as he ignored the remark, and continued to splash his arms and legs and wallow in the mudflats along the shoreline, asserting that he was a widdle-biddy fishy.

Little Hawk is a well known fantabulist who creates wild and fanciful tales about simians, hamsters, Canadian sots modeled on his mother, and dreams of unreal movie stars; so it is no surprise he has turned his fruitful but scurrilous imagination on my bold adventures south of the border, which he only wishes he could emulate. Unfortunately his hom is surrounded by snow and if he tried to flee south of the border he would be arrested by Homeland Security as a dubious type.

You're not the only person who has had to resort to extraordinary measures to fend off Amos's unsolicited advances, Rapparee. I have heard some real horror stories from Chongo about bizarre and quite disturbing stuff he's turned up while investigating Amos's illicit actitivies in Mexico. Really creepy! You don't want to know. ;-)

And that is because the last time Amos and I met I fell down (he tripped me) and offered his hand to help me up. I politely declined his help, as I had seen what he'd been doing with his hands earlier and knew that an extremely contagious (and embarassing) disease could be spread. No, instead I worked my way to shore of Chesapeake Bay by myself and again declined his offer of a "hand up" knowing that if I once touched his hand he'd be all over me like white on rice. I don't object to those who like that, but I simply don't care for it myself and I knew that I'd have to harm Amos to break free. Therefore I politely replied, "No, thank you, I'm fine," to which he replied, "I'll bet you are!"

Oh. Only a level 8 license, huh? I have a Level 1.0 license, lifetime issue, license to ignore or use meter, scansion, rhyme, alliteration, assonance, personification, and all that other poetical stuff as I see fit. As a Level 8 you, Amos, must stick to the "rules" of trochee, anapest, dactyl, falling meter, enjambment, pyrrhic, iamb, tercet, spondee, et al. Of course, this does mean that you have been promoted from a Level 9, where all you could write were dirty limericks because the "clean" ones were too difficult, so perhaps there is some little hope for you. I'll be happy to nominate you for a Level 7.8 if you'll respond in a spondee.

Heavens! I'm gong to be attacked by a medieval dachshund! Alack and alas! the dog shall undermine mine castle walls yip all night so I cannot get restful sleep! Whenever I catapult a ball of stone it will chase it and bring it back! Oh, whoa is me!

It is as a psychological defense that I refer to it, sirrah; your stout reinforced oaken doors are keeping out even the slightest glimmer of my earnest humor. What excellent defenses for your precious validity. The merrymakers of the world will surround your bastion and shower it with laughter and applause. But it remains to be seen whether any of it will get in. Little Hawk has offered his weiner dog as a battering ram.

Amos, the "keep" was the central tower of a castle, the place of last resort during a siege. The "donjon" was rarely a place of imprisonment, as we think of them today, but rather below-ground storage rooms for food and other necessities that would be needed during a siege. The portcullis, being a grate, would hardly block noise. A "donjon keep" wouldn't have a portcullis, although the entrance to the "donjons" might have a sturdy, iron-reinforced, door. Remember that the castle was intended as a military strong point and was never meant to be a place of partying it up or a snug and warm home (although it could and was used as both).

Good Morning, Mom! Let me be the first to congratulate you! Amos finally stayed out of jail for a whole night AND a whole day! You have every reason to be proud of him -- that hasn't happened since he was four years old.